You Synesthete! You Poet!

There is an art to the workings of the senses. Sight, touch, sound, vibrant colors all around. She sees the color magenta when she thinks of her childhood. She hears thirds and sevenths when she feels his warm touch. A harpist’s plucking gives her a taste of eternity. Live blissfully, words whisper. You synesthete! You poet! Open your eyes.... It’s only lies, but aren’t they beautiful? Don’t they shine? Why must you feel so behind? “I want my senses to stop tricking me,” she answers, but they’ve already turned and laughed. Pain is stale cigarettes. Loneliness, a deep indigo smeared across a rainy sky. She sits and ponders why when it thunders she is reminded of headaches. Love is a smooth black pencil upon beige pages of a leather-bound journal. Everything else is just reality....